


Ritual Humiliation

by deerna



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM Scene, Boot Worship, Cuddling, Dom/sub, Flashbacks, Humiliation, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Roleplay, Roughness, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, Safewords, Sub Hanzo Shimada, Subdrop, Subspace, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 05:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17543558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerna/pseuds/deerna
Summary: Hanzo asks Jesse to get him out of his head. Jesse complies. Hanzo miscalculates.Hanzo opens his eyes; McCree is crouching next to him, eyes dark and searching, studying his face from up close. He doesn’t know what he sees there, but whatever it is, it appeases him. After a few seconds that felt like forever, McCree nods to himself and slowly pulls the cigarillo out of his mouth.“What do we say,” McCree repeats, slowly, softly. “When we’ve been bad?”





	Ritual Humiliation

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story for kinktober 2017 but it quickly spiraled out of control. It ended up in dark places that I couldn't handle, so I let it sit in my draft folder since then.  
> It was time I took it out and finished it.
> 
> Partecipa alla Maritombola di [LandeDiFandom](http://www.landedifandom.net/) per il prompt 51, _Nessuno può farvi sentire inferiori senza il vostro consenso_.

The carpet under Hanzo’s cheek is plush, but it still scratches at his skin. It smells like smoke and dust. Such an unpleasant smell—that’s all he can think about. He’s supposed to be focusing on his own breath, on stopping the screaming inside his skull, but—

He tries to concentrate on the pain in his knees. He remembers the dull thud they made hitting the floor; he lets himself feel the sweat rolling in small drops down his neck. His kyudo-gi feels damp, uncomfortably glued to his skin; disheveled strands of hair that escaped his ponytail stick to his face. He itches all over.

McCree feels heavy on the back of his thighs, where he’s sat himself to tie Hanzo’s hands at the small of his back, rough rope biting into his wrists.

The consequence of defeat. Hanzo is usually able to hold his own against Jesse, despite his smaller build, but today there are different powers at play. He _wants_ this.

He still feels restless, unsatisfied, trapped in his own mind.

He used to blame the dragons for the strange boiling that upsets his blood and his soul from time to time, but he can feel the creatures watching him from deep inside himself, quiet and blameless, unreadable expression on their twin muzzles. It had taken him a while to admit that it wasn’t them: whatever that is and where it comes from, it’s all Hanzo. He used to drink himself into a stupor, or to train until he collapsed, to make it go away, but now—

McCree tightens the rope around his wrists and Hanzo grunts at the tension in his shoulders. His solid weight pressing him into the floor feels grounding, centering. Safe. He’s grateful to Jesse for agreeing to this—but the ugly restlessness in his gut bristles at the thought of being so easily defeated as he just did.

His first instinct is to pull his arms free, to buck his hips and try to dislodge McCree from his legs, but the cowboy just presses a knee between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the ground with a chuckle.

“Woah there, darling. Easy, easy,” McCree croons, patting him like he would a spooked horse.

_Patronizing_. _Mocking_. Something in Hanzo snaps and lights his blood on fire—he’s the heir of the Shimada, the next kumicho, why is he letting himself to be treated like a _lowly beast_ —

“Fuck you,” Hanzo snarls between gritted teeth.

“Now.” There’s a cold edge in McCree’s voice now. The playful tone from before was gone. “That wasn’t very nice.”

A shiver runs down Hanzo’s spine, gut clenching with dread. He knows he made a mistake but— _a Shimada never begs for forgiveness, Hanzo_. He chokes on the humiliation, he shoves his weakness down where it can never come back from and keeps his lips pressed together, defiant even in the face of regret.

McCree mounts off, slowly walks around him, spurs rattling and heels clacking on the floor at every step until his boots come in Hanzo’s line of sight. Hanzo hears him click his tongue, and looks up; he can’t see his eyes from there, hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his stupid hat, and he can only vaguely imagine the grim line of his mouth, but he can see the bright ember burning at the end of his cigarillo.

“Come on, Hanzo. What do you say when you’ve been rude?” McCree prompts him.

_I’m sorry_.

Hanzo bites his tongue and keeps quiet. The sound of his heavy breathing against the carpet is deafening to his own ears.

(Blood, a flash of silver, the screams of three dragons deep in his soul—)

_I’m sorry_.

He squeezes his eyes shut against the sting of salt. He hears McCree’s boots walk closer, the rustle of fabric, the clink of his garish buckle.

“Hanzo,” McCree calls, voice noticeably softer than before, much closer.

Hanzo opens his eyes; McCree is crouching next to him, eyes dark and searching, studying his face from up close. He doesn’t know what he sees there, but whatever it is, it appeases him. After a few seconds that felt like forever, McCree nods to himself and slowly pulls the cigarillo out of his mouth.

“What do we say,” McCree repeats, slowly, softly. “When we’ve been bad?”

_Bad_. Hanzo’s breath itches. “I’m sorry,” he finally rasps out.

McCree flashes him a smile, and the knot that Hanzo didn’t even know was in his chest comes a little loose. When McCree straightens up again, the stern expression from earlier is back on his face and his cigarillo is back in his mouth, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes, a tiny curl to his mouth. Hanzo smiles back, quick and uncertain. He can breathe easier, but the knot is still there.

“Well, that took a while,” McCree drawls, rolling his cigarillo between two fingers and carelessly scattering ash all over the floor. “Not that I expected anything from a snooty Shimada like yourself. Kneel up, now.”

He follows the order with a low groan, struggling to obey without the help of his hands.

“I know your type, you know,” the cowboy keeps going, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs slightly apart. Hanzo knows it’s an invitation; he crawls on his knees until he’s sitting back on his heels right in front of him, and McCree rewards him by reaching out and fisting a hand into his half-undone ponytail, pulling at his hair. “Spoiled rotten. Used to having everyone at your beck and call. Blaming others for your mistakes, and never having to pay for them. But look at you now—I could do anything to you, and you would just let me, wouldn’t you?”

Hanzo expects a bubble of arousal to blossom in his gut. It doesn’t come.

“Yes,” he breathes out.

“Yellow,” Jesse murmurs, tipping his hat upwards with his metal hand until the light hits his eyes. “Sorry, sweetheart, I really need to check in. Your color?”

“Green,” Hanzo says.

“Are you sure?”

The knot twists tighter in Hanzo’s chest. “Yes. I forgot what we were doing, for a moment. I’m fine now.”

Jesse hums. “Bad thoughts?” His palm cradles the back of Hanzo’s head, warm and grounding, fingertips gentle as he massaged small circles into his abused scalp.

(Blood. A flash of silver— _a Shimada never asks for forgiveness, Hanzo_ )

“Yeah.” Hanzo pushes his sweaty forehead against Jesse’s knee. “Thanks for letting me work it out instead of...” he trails off.

“Sure, darling. By now I know better than to stop you when you’re in the middle of those.” Jesse cards his finger through Hanzo’s hair until he can pull the elastic out of it. “But I won’t deny I was a bit worried. I trust your judgement but remember that when you wanna slow or even stop there are words you can use—”

“I know,” Hanzo says, maybe too quickly. He bites down on the blood curdling shame, _the bad kind_ , before it can rise all the way up. They aren’t playing now; there is no space for that. He’s the one who insisted they do this—he’s not allowed to feel like this. He can’t have Jesse feel guilty about it, just because—

“Okay, good. Wanna keep going?”

“Yes.” It’s just taking longer than usual. That’s all. “Please.”

“I just wanna make sure.” Jesse’s knuckles caress down his cheek. “You looked really panicky, earlier. Clammy. As much as I love watching you squirm, I don’t want to push you in a bad place... Can you look at me?”

Hanzo lifts his head, turning away from where he was hiding his face in Jesse’s knee. “I want it,” he reassures him, looking at him, before he can be tempted to change his mind.

He _does_ want it. Of course he does—he could never not want it. He revels in this kind of thing. He’s sick like that—there’s nothing wrong with it. Jesse doesn’t judge him, not anymore. They have crossed that bridge a long time ago, before they started doing—whatever this is.

(Jesse was angry, then accepting, then forgiving, as—others were. Hanzo still doesn't believe it. He still fears that one day he’ll wake up in a nondescript hotel room and find out that everything was a dream. He doesn’t deserve anyone’s kindness—)

One last caress to Hanzo’s high cheekbone. “Okay then,” Jesse mutters to himself, pulling his hat off and fixing his hair before putting it back on. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Hanzo nods, straightens himself, sits back on his calves. He looks up at Jesse, and doesn’t find him; the fond smile is gone, the open look in his eyes. McCree is unreadable, cold and calculating, his mouth a grim, thin line but for the shape of the cigarillo that hangs from the corner of his lips. The picture of a dangerous man. Hanzo shivers and looks down, hoping—

“Eyes on me,” McCree snaps, takes a long drag from the cigar and puffs a cloud of smoke almost directly in Hanzo’s face.

Hanzo looks back up, trying not to cough at the acrid smell.

“What does it feel like to be finally put in your place, Shimada? Oh, my bad,” McCree snorts, an ugly sound to match the ugly sneer on his face, cold mirth in his eyes. “This isn’t very different from what you are used to, ain’t it? Waiting for orders kneeling on the floor.”

McCree always started small, picking at a piece of harmless truth. “Did the old geezers ever demand respect from their men by putting them on their knees to suck their literal cocks other than their metaphorical ones? With a pretty mouth like yours I bet you were real busy.”

Shame and arousal burned hot in Hanzo's stomach. He doesn’t know why the idea of being used like a cheap whore makes him hard, but it always does—even as his guts freeze with the impulse of getting on the defensive. The elders might have used him but—

“As pretty as it is, I don’t think I want it on my dick. I mean, who knows where it’s been.”

—Hanzo _isn’t_ a whore. He’s hard, and he wants it, but—

McCree grimaces, pulls an ashtray from under the mattress and puts his cigarillo away. “Why don't you use that skilled tongue of yours to clean my boots instead?”

—something is wrong, and Hanzo wants it to go away. He tries to bend without falling over with his hands tied behind his back; it’s a stretch but he manages. Before he can put his mouth on the toe of McCree’s boots tho, the cowboy pulls it back, cackling.

“Look at you, going at it like a starved dog. So eager! I didn't even have to _order_ you to do it. Always falling over yourself to please your masters.” He chuckles. “I may be a cruel bastard, but I wasn't going to let you do it without untying your wrists first, you silly thing. Are you that desperate for approval? You really can't help it, can you?”

Hanzo can't tell if he wants to come or to cry. He pulls back, wishing for the floor to swallow him. There's a fog clouding his thoughts, full of McCree’s cruel laughter. He’s embarrassed—he doesn’t want to look dumb in front of McCree.

“It’s okay, honey,” the cowboy croons, leaning over him to free his hands. “There you go. You can lick them now. Go on, clean them good. Lots of spit. Wanna see them shine.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hanzo mumbles, rubbing the circulation back in his wrists.

“So polite,” McCree says. “I might even reward you if you do a good job. Come on.”

A snap of fingers and Hanzo puts himself at work, licking long, wet stripes along the leather. The polish and the dust clinging to the surface of the shoe taste vile, but Hanzo doesn’t stop. His brain is gloriously silent, although he can feel the dragons watching from afar, coiling noisily on another plane of existence. Once he’s done with the first boot he switches to the other; he pretends he’s licking something else, he makes it wet and filthy and suggestive.

When he’s finished, he straightens and sits back on his calves as McCree inspects his work. He knows he did good, because there's a sizeable bulge in his crotch.

McCree catches him staring and gives himself a lazy stroke through the fabric with a chuckle, sounding genuinely amused. “Aren’t you the picture of hope.”

Hanzo feels his ears go hot.

“You were really good, but I’m afraid I can't reward you this time, Hanzo. You missed a spot." He pulls a boot off and turns it around to show him the heel. He shakes it, making the spur rattle.

Hanzo's mouth falls open in shock and horror. The _spurs. He forgot the spurs._

“I’m sorry,” he splutters.

The feeling of failure and regret breaks something deep inside Hanzo, and suddenly the coldness that was churning just below the surface surges, washing away everything else.

(Blood, a flash of silver, the screams of three dragons deep in his soul—)

He cannot breathe. He failed, his face is wet and the shame burns cold through him.

Jesse is saying something but he cannot hear. He’s trembling, the blood rushing in his ears sounds like the sandpapery skins of his dragons rubbing against each other. Cherry blossoms litter the garden full of sun and laughter, the night feels long and lonely waiting up for Genji, eating through his stash of forbidden junk food as he crams for the last exam—

“Hanzo.”

“Fuck,” Hanzo says, rubs a hand down his face. “I’m sorry, we can keep going—”

“No. It’s red.” Jesse kneels down in front of him, takes his face in his hands. “Breathe.”

“I can take it. I don't—”

“Hanzo.” Jesse's voice is thick with worry, but firm. “I want to stop. That's why I’m saying red.”

Shame, growing layers. “I’m sorry, you're right.” The tension bleeds out of Hanzo and he leans forward, relaxes against Jesse's shoulder, counting on his exhales. “You didn't come.”

“You didn’t, either. Were you even feeling it at all? I can never tell if you're hard when you have these things on," Jesse said, gently touching the folds of his hakama.

“Sorry for asking you to do this today,” Hanzo says instead. “Maybe it was a bad idea.”

“Don’t apologize, you were clearly trying to get out of your head.” Jesse’s hands are gentle against his scalp. “I’m sorry it didn't help. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

Hanzo huffs a tired laughter. “Can I suck you off even though I didn't do anything to earn it?”

“Maybe later,” Jesse says, and there’s laughter in his voice. “Insatiable even on the verge of subdrop, aren’t you? Are you cold?”

“Yes, actually.” He’s shivering. He didn't realize until Jesse pointed it out.

Jesse maneuvers them on the bed and under the comforter, stripping out of his boots and his jeans and his shirt, letting Hanzo put his hands all over him. He’s warm and solid, and Hanzo basks in the comforting sensation. He pulls at his own garments with clumsy hands until Jesse helps him out of them, throwing them off the edge of the bed afterwards. They curl up together, naked and content, the outworldly noise of Hanzo's dragons mimicking them a whisper in his ears.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s stupid,” Hanzo says. “But I still feel like I should be at the shrine.”

“It's not stupid. You’ve been doing it for ten years now, haven’t you?”

“It became a habit, I guess,” Hanzo answers with a shrug.

Jesse hums, thoughtful. “You don’t just stop honoring rituals, you know. There’s a reason for which they become rituals in the first place.”

The dragons whine and yawn before curling up tighter, in a more comfortable position.

Hanzo ignores them and buries his head in Jesse’s chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/somewhatclear) and [dreamwidth](https://somewhatclear.dreamwidth.org/).


End file.
